


Dean Winchester: Damsel in Distress

by FelOllie



Series: Twit Fics [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: But it's definitely there, Choking, Donna and Dean have great chemistry, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Light choking should be a tag, Porn with Feelings, Prompt Fill, barely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 11:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16618064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelOllie/pseuds/FelOllie
Summary: “Oh, hon, you’ve got a nasty bump on your noggin there,” Donna tells him, poking gently at the wound.He hisses but lets her poke. “It’s just a scratch, I’m good.”Donna wacks him with her flashlight. “Stuff it, Stallone,” she snarks. “It’s a long drive back to Lebanon. As an officer of the law, I cannot in good conscience allow you behind the wheel. Besides, I’d never forgive either of us if you totalled a machine as sexy as that Impala.”A cocky smirk and a kinked brow immediately get aimed right at her. “I thought you were immune to my sex appeal.”Eyes rolling, she turns to head for the stairs back up to the ground level. “I said Baby was sexy, not you. Keep it in your pants, Winchester.”





	Dean Winchester: Damsel in Distress

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my loves!
> 
> 'Nother prompt fill for you. Mostly unedited as of now, so if you come back and things look a little different, that's why.
> 
> Dean & Donna is a pairing I will take in any form I can get. Jensen and Bri have an awesome chemistry that carries into their characters, and this fic is the result of my feelings about that. Well, feelings and the prompt from a lovely Twitter user. 
> 
> Anywho, have at it! I encourage you to share your opinions with me.
> 
> (As always, if you need me to tag/warn for anything I haven't already, please please please do not hesitate to let me know!)

This was a terrible idea. Why didn’t he wait for Sam to blow into town? It was only an extra day -- he should have waited.

However, Dean is not the waiting type. Not when innocent lives hang in the balance, anyway. Which is how he ended up chained to a wall like a rabid dog, a gash above his right eyebrow and a set of claw marks raked into the meat of his left bicep.

The pack came out of nowhere, catching Dean completely off-guard. He barely had time to send out an SOS to the nearest hunter before he was being tackled sideways, the world going black. When he woke, it was to find himself anchored to a stone wall in a basement somewhere, his shirt hanging in tatters from one shoulder and blood crusting in his eye. He’s been awake for a few minutes, but so far no sign of the wolf that tagged him. 

“This was a success,” Dean slurs to himself, shaking his head to clear away some of the fog.

The awareness that someone or something is lurking nearby creeps over his skin. A growl vibrates through him, emanating from the dark abyss of the other half of the basement. Dean swallows thickly, praying to Chuck that his message was received.

“”Scuse me,” he calls into the shadows, “Anybody got a cell phone I can use?”

The growl intensifies, rising in decibel. Dean can feel it in his bones as the monster creeps nearer and he breaks out in a sweat.

A voice sing-songs from somewhere deep, deep in the shadows.

“Here puppy, puppy.”

Dean’s heart would stop if it weren’t racing so fast.

The sound of gunfire makes his eardrums hurt. Between flashes Dean catches the generous silhouette of a woman moving like an assassin through the darkness. A few howls go up, but it’s already too late.

“Over here,” he calls out when the shots stop.

Heavy boots sound across dirt and then a shadow is looming over him. He can already smell her perfume -- something light but earthy -- and it’s a welcome change from the acrid stench of death suffocating the basement. 

“Hiya, Dean,” Donna greets, shoving her flashlight between her thighs so she can hold it while she works his cuffs loose. “Looks like I got here just in time.”

“All hail the queen,” he snorts.

Dean rubs his wrists when they slip free, then struggles to his feet. The ceiling is low and he has to stoop, but it’s infinitely better than being leashed, so he doesn’t complain.

“Oh, hon, you’ve got a nasty bump on your noggin there,” Donna tells him, poking gently at the wound. 

He hisses but lets her poke. “It’s just a scratch, I’m good.”

Donna wacks him with her flashlight. “Stuff it, Stallone,” she snarks. “It’s a long drive back to Lebanon. As an officer of the law, I cannot in good conscience allow you behind the wheel. Besides, I’d never forgive either of us if you totalled a machine as sexy as that Impala.”

A cocky smirk and a kinked brow immediately get aimed right at her. “I thought you were immune to my sex appeal.”

Eyes rolling, she turns to head for the stairs back up to the ground level. “I said Baby was sexy, not you. Keep it in your pants, Winchester.”

He follows Donna up, decidedly _not_ noticing how much better jeans hug her curves than uniform pants do. When they’re back topside Donna brushes dirt off her palms and onto her thighs then points in the direction of her truck.

“I’m over there a ways. I’ll give you a lift and we’ll come back for your car tomorrow.”

“Alright,” he grunts, following her lead when she walks off. “Got any good lodging recommendations?”

“Good luck,” Donna chuffs. “There’s a family reunion in town and only one worthwhile hotel within about 40 miles.”

Sighing, Dean pushes his fists into the pockets of his coat to ward off some of the cold. “Alright Sheriff, you got another idea?”

The full moon overhead illuminates less of the dark than the smile she aims his way. 

“Oh, sweet cheeks, I got tons of ‘em.”

 

***

 

Donna’s house has the same vibe as the woman herself. It’s warm and inviting, full of rich, vibrant colors that clash yet somehow work with the typical midwestern style of antlers and mounted trophies.

“You hunt?”

“Little bit,” Donna says, before popping an M&M into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “My dad taught my brothers and me when we were practically babies. Most of those are his, but that ten pointer over there was all me.”

Dean hums right past asking anything about her family. He doesn’t want to know if hers is as fucked up as his. Hell, he doesn’t want to know if they’re all happy and old and alive or whatever either. It’s not that he doesn’t care, he honestly just doesn't want the knowledge. So he doesn’t ask.

“You wanna call your brother?”

Head already shaking the negative, Dean scoffs. “No, we’re not doing that. I already texted him, I don’t need him all worried and strung out about me being hurt or sounding tired or something. It’s fine.”

“God forbid someone care about your wellbeing,” Donna chuckles. “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

Dean can’t help but laugh. “I just don’t want him worried over nothing.”

“I wouldn’t call almost being a werewolf’s chew toy nothing.”

Ignoring that pretty blatantly, Dean tries and fails to not watch Donna as she shoves up from the table and wanders on bare feet over to the refrigerator. She wanders back with two beers and pops the caps off using the edge of the table before handing one to Dean.

“I’ve had way worse,” he says, clearing his throat and focusing on his beer. “Sam and I… We just do better when we’re not in each other's pocket all the time.”

“Hey, I get it,” Donna says, kicking her feet up into his lap with a grin. “I’ve got brothers too.”

Accepting that for what it is, Dean slouches further down on his cushion and curls a hand around Donna’s ankle. When she doesn’t kick him in the nuts for it, his thumb starts a delicate path from ankle to heel and back again. 

Donna’s head tips back until it’s resting on her chair, her blonde hair swinging down behind her, the long column of her throat on full display. Dean is trying not to notice the way her t-shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin between the hem and the waist of her jeans, but it’s difficult when he can feel said skin, warm and soft and tempting against his. The way it stretches over the slight protrusion of her pelvis makes his mouth water.

“Stop it.”

Dean’s attention snaps to her face, his fingers going still. “Stop what? I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Not the thumb thing, the eyeball thing. Do guys not know we can feel that?” Donna asks, hiking a brow at him from across the table. “Seriously? We’re not exactly subtle about it.”

“Yeah well, neither are we apparently,” he says as he resumes his ministrations.

“I hunt monsters on both sides of the law.” Donna reminds him. “If I can’t feel eyes on me, I’m dead meat.”

“Touche,” Dean says with a laugh. “Can’t blame a guy though. You’ve met you, right?”

If he isn’t mistaken, that’s a blush creeping into Donna’s cheeks.

“I will punch you in the throat,” she warns before hiding behind the neck of her bottle when she lifts it to her lips.

Dean coughs out a laugh and it sounds affectionate even to his ears. “Holy shit, I didn’t think you had a shy gene.”

“I don’t,” Donna snips back, clearly flustered. 

Apparently she wasn’t prepared for blatant flirting when there’s actual risk involved. The pair of them flirt pretty consistently whenever they're within speaking distance, but there’s always someone else around. Sam, Jody, Claire, a Doug… There’s always been a buffer.

Maybe they needed one.

With the possibilities waiting on the other side of either of them actually making a move -- with legitimate intent -- it’s a whole other ball game.

Dean breaks the lingering, not uncomfortable silence. “So, you got a guest bedroom in this joint or what?” 

Donna’s expression clears completely and she beams again. “Ya, you betcha. Why, you ready to call lights out?”

“I could sleep,” he agrees.

Donna stands and downs the rest of her beer, rinsing the bottle in the sink before she flips it into the drain and strides past him toward the stairs.

“I’ll go grab the med kit and wash up,” she tosses out behind her. “Guest bedroom is at the top of the stairs, first door on your right. There’s a shower across the hall, help yourself to whatever.”

Dean heard her instructions. Vaguely, but he heard ‘em. He can figure it out.

Honestly though, he’s still thinking about the way she chugged that mostly full beer.

 

***

 

After his much needed scrub down in the smallest shower stall known to man, Dean dresses in sweatpants, leaving his torso bare so he can tend to the line of jagged tears marking up his arm. He’s just managed to situate himself on the red chaise lounge pushed up under the window, bending to put his socks on, when Donna knocks on the door.

“I’m decent,” he calls.

She sweeps into the room in clingy sleep pants and a tank top, mouth tipped up at the corners and a red duffle bag in hand. Her eyes slide down the naked wall of his chest, but she doesn’t comment on the partial nudity.

“Should we be worried about that?” she asks, using her elbow to indicate the claw marks. 

Dean glances down at the wounds, frowning. “Nah, pretty sure we’re in the clear, Little Red.”

Plopping the bag on the floor by his feet, Donna perches on his injured side. “Yeah, eat this,” she sasses, absently flipping her middle finger at him while she leans in to get a closer look. “Doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches, but I wanna clean it anyway.”

Donna bends to retrieve what she needs from the med kit, but Dean brushes her off. “I already cleaned it.”

She shoots him a withering glare and slathers a few gauze with antiseptic, then presses them against his arm. Dean hisses out a pained sound, fist clenching against the sting. 

“Jesus, you’re aggressive.”

“You’re not the first man to tell me that,” Donna smirks, obviously proud of herself. “Stop being block-headed and I won’t have to manhandle you,” she suggests, tone dripping sarcasm even as she gentles her touch and thoroughly cleans his wounds.

He watches her fingers dance over his skin, bandaging him up with slow, methodical movements. “I’m a big boy, Donna, I could have done that,” he offers, even though he’s enjoying himself immensely. 

She lifts her eyes to his, a sharp smile playing on her lips. “I have very little doubt that you’re capable -- but you either let me patch you up or I tie you down and do it anyway. Your choice.”

Dean swallows hard. Heat pours into his gut at the mental image alone. 

Donna’s hands stall in their quest to wrap his bicep. “Are you blushing?” she asks, eyes wide with awe. 

No judgement.

“It’s hot in here,” he defends, gaze skipping away.

Donna returns to her task, but there’s something new cloying in the air. She hums a little under her breath while she works and when she’s done, she wraps both hands around the damaged, newly dressed flesh.

When she speaks again, her words send his blood burning through his veins.

“I like to be choked.” She says it so fast that Dean knows she had to force it out and just barely manages to not blush. “Uh, not like… hard or anything,” she explains without meeting his eye. “I like breathing, but there’s something...”

“Freeing?”

Donna’s eyes snap to his. “Yeah,” she agrees, surprised. “Submitting like that, giving up control to someone else -- I don’t know, it’s nice. Liberating. Which is a weird way to describe having someone wrap a hand around your throat while they fuck you, but here we are.”

“I get it though,” Dean tells her hesitantly. 

He’s testing the waters, giving back what Donna offered him, but it feels strange to share this with someone else. He’s never put this particular desire into words before, much less said them aloud. Donna is giving him something here, pieces she probably doesn’t share with everyone, all in an effort to rebalance the scales. 

So he tries.

“I, uh -- Wanting someone else to steer, I get it,” he continues. “Most people take one look at me and assume I’m something I’m not. Or not _only_ that, I guess. I don’t get to…”

“Bottom?” 

An ancient, lingering fear flickers to life behind his sternum. He knows by now it’s just the connotation of the word that rubs him wrong, the stereotype built up around it, so he resists the urge to shy away from using it. 

“Yeah,” he hears himself affirm. “Most people assume I’m only into dominating, so I don’t get to bottom often. It’s not like I always want it that way, you know? But it’s nice to have the option.”

Donna grins lopsidedly, all warmth and affection. “I’ll top for you anytime, handsome,” she says, giving his arm a delicate squeeze before she releases it. 

Dean laughs, using his eyebrows to be as suggestive as humanly possible. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Packing away her supplies, Donna snorts. “You wouldn’t know what to do with me, Winchester.”

And oh, the gauntlet has been thrown.

Donna doesn’t see it coming. Dean takes pleasure in the way she gasps when he curls a hand around the back of her neck and drags her body against his. Her palms land flat on his pecs, fingertips pressing almost imperceptibly into him.

“What are you doing?” Donna asks, eyes wide on his and breath slightly ragged. 

They’re so close they’re inhaling each other. Dean‘s lips hover over hers, so near he can feel the shift in the air between them when Donna’s tongue glides along her bottom lip. 

He knows she can taste it when he responds, “Calling your bluff.”

The first press of his lips to hers is another challenge. Donna takes it without missing a beat. She rises up like a wave and crashes into him, unable to get close enough. Her tongue is insistent at the seam of his lips even as she climbs into his lap and straddles his hips, framing his face with both hands cupping the hinge of his jaw. Dean lets her in with a sigh and cradles her head in his hands, fingers woven deep into the roots of her hair.

Donna shifts in his lap, hips rolling forward until Dean’s erection is snuggled into the heat at the apex of her thighs. A groan vibrates in his throat when she grinds down and he can’t help the way he shoves up against the pressure. Donna’s spine bows and she leans away from him, guiding his mouth to the curve of her neck with her head thrown back. 

Dean is very good at taking direction. He worries at her throat with his teeth, making her moan and shiver above him. 

“Fuck, your mouth is ridiculous,” Donna pants. 

Flicking his tongue over the pulse hammering beneath rosey skin, Dean mouths his way along the slope of her shoulder and hums. He sucks a bruise next to the hollow of Donna’s throat, cock jumping at the sound she makes.

“Come here,” Dean murmurs, pulling her lips back to his.

His hands skim down Donna’s chest and she whimpers onto his tongue when they skim right past her breasts. She’s trembling with anticipation already, blossoming under every touch. Dean hauls her in, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her down so he can rock up into the V of her thighs.

Donna cries out with her face buried in his neck, a high-pitched sound that sends sparks of electricity spilling down Dean’s spine. Her fingernails leave burning points from his hairline to his shoulders. Dean anchors her with one hand and slips the other between them, flat so that his fingertips drag down the soft swell of her belly when he pushes his hand down the front of her pants. 

“Please, please, please,” Donna whines, squirming above him.

“I’ve got you, darlin’,” Dean soothes gently, peppering kisses in a messy line from her jaw to her mouth while he slips inside the silky satin of her panties. “Trust me.”

Donna is drenched when he glides a single fingertip through her slick folds. She pushes her nose into the slope of his throat, hips seeking out the right angle to get him inside her. Her whimpering is cut through with curses, but it’s all muffled into Dean’s skin anyway. 

When Dean sinks two fingers inside her clutching warmth, Donna’s body quivers and she bites down hard at his shoulder, ripping a moan from his chest.

“Shit,” he breathes, working his digits in smooth undulations inside her. “If you kill me, promise you’ll tell everyone how I died, okay?”

Donna laughs but it’s thin and breathless. “I’ll do whatever you want if you stop fucking teasing me.”

Little shit that he is, Dean stops moving his hand altogether. Donna pinches his ribs.

“I can do this without you, you know,” she points out.

Masculine pride rears its ugly head and Dean is moving before he really considers doing so. Donna’s back hits the chaise so hard her breath knocks out of her, but her eyes light up with a wicked glint and Dean knows she’s as into it as he is.

“You could,” he says, smirking and rolling his body down into hers. “And I would love to see it, I ain’t even gonna try to lie to you. But I really, really want to make you come on my tongue right now, so maybe we can do that later.”

Donna lets her legs fall open, a direct contrast to the way she spidermonkeyed him a second ago. “I’ve always really respected your leadership.”

He can’t stop the laugh that bursts from his throat. “That’s my girl,” he grins, then drops to his knees.

Lifting her hips, Donna helps Dean shimmy her pants and underwear down her legs. He tosses them behind him without taking his eyes off the vision before him. Donna doesn’t shy away from his gaze; if anything, she preens under it. 

Dean sets her calves on his shoulders and drops an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Donna’s knee. Her skin smells like soap, warm and clean, and Dean noses from knee to hip, blazing kisses trailing in his wake. 

“Keep these where I put them,” he commands, digging his thumbs into the thickest part of Donna’s thighs. 

Donna nods eagerly, pupils blown black, eating up all the rich brown. 

When Dean licks into her, Donna’s spine arches hard but she keeps her legs spread wide. She hisses every vulgar word he’s ever heard her say and his cock throbs in his briefs. Dean runs the flat of his tongue from the bottom of her slit to the nub of her clit and Donna keens. 

“Seriously, your -- _ah_ \-- your fucking mouth though,” she manages between labored breaths and panting moans. 

Her fingers twist in his hair and she rocks up into his mouth, looking down at the way he works her body with his lips and tongue. Dean holds her gaze while he lashes at her clit, his fingers leaving marks where they hold her to the lounge by the hips. He lifts her, nearly bending her body in half, and doubles his efforts. 

Every breath carries praise and Dean soaks it in, letting it fuel the inferno raging under his skin. When Donna comes, she holds his mouth to her pussy with her hands fisted in his hair and nearly screams his name.

Dean sets her feet on the floor and crawls up to swallow the sounds of pleasure still pitifully tumbling from Donna’s lips. She’s boneless beneath him but still manages to throw her arms around his neck and draw him closer.

She blinks up at him when he pulls away, her smile punchdrunk and lazy. “I’m gonna write a song about your mouth. Whole album, maybe.”

Dean chuckles and brushes away the hair clinging to her eyelashes. “Yeah? Whatcha gonna call it?”

“Odes to Dean’s Mouth, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Shut up, you broke my brain,” Donna scolds, though she doesn’t bother wiping away her affectionate grin.

“I’m aiming for your bed next,” Dean tells her matter-of-factly. 

Donna tugs at his hair sharply, making him suck a breath between his teeth. The excited jump of his cock against Donna’s belly doesn’t go unnoticed.

“That too, huh?”

“Lil’ bit,” Dean says, corners of his mouth curling.

Donna crushes their smiles together and Dean free falls into it. She wraps herself around him, pushing even as she pulls, and it’s easy to lose himself in every caress of skin, every brush of lips. Dean puts his other knee up next to Donna’s hip but the chaise lounge creaks ominously and he freezes. Laughter in her eyes, Donna rolls her lips in between her teeth and bites them together.

“Okay, chaise first, then the bed,” Dean jokes.

Donna shoves at his chest and Dean stands, pulling her up with him. As soon as she’s back in his arms he spins them toward the bed and walks her backward, toppling with her when the back of her knees hit the mattress and she falls.

With a hand under her back, Dean pulls Donna up the bed under him. They slot their lips together and this time Dean is the first to lick inside. Donna runs her hands over every stretch of skin she can find, scraping the blunt tips of her nails down the line of his spine and making a moan rumble deep in his chest. He surges down, pressing her deeper into the bed as their tongues tangle together.

Donna shifts her pelvis and Dean bites out a curse, the drag of fabric over his cock almost too much. He’s been hard since she said she was into choking and she hasn’t even touched him yet, but Dean is so keyed up he knows he won’t last once he’s inside her.

Almost as if she can read his mind, Donna digs her heels into the waist of his sweats and starts trying to inch them down. Dean holds himself above her with one hand and helps her strip him with the other. He kicks his pants off the edge of the bed and pushes his thighs right up under Donna’s ass, slipping his hands beneath her tank top to ruck it up to her chest.

He lavishes her breasts with attention, biting just this side of too hard at the swell of each one. Donna moans raggedly, head thrown back and hair spilling over the bedspread. 

“Condom,” she pants. “Fuck, please, Dean.”

He has to leave her to retrieve it from his bag, but he’s back above her in a blink, condom between his teeth so his hands are free to roam wherever they please. Donna takes it and rips the foil package, then knocks his hands away from her tits so she can roll the condom down his length.

Dean chews the inside of his cheek to keep from shooting off as soon her grip closes around him, but he manages. It gets infinitely more difficult when Donna guides him to her entrance and uses her legs to urge him forward.

Donna’s body envelopes his cock in clutching warmth when he pushes inside and it punches the air right out of him. Dean bottoms out with his eyes screwed shut and his face hidden in the slope of Donna’s neck. 

“Fuck,” he grits, overwhelmed. “We should have done this sooner.”

Donna practically _giggles_ and it makes Dean’s lungs swell behind his sternum. 

“We’re barely doing it now,” she says. “Move, dammit.”

Grinding his teeth, Dean obeys. The roll of his hips is slow at first, a steady tempo to get his bearings. Donna makes glorious little sounds every time he gets deep, spurring him on. Eventually, Dean gains momentum. Every thrust becomes a pointed snap of his body against hers and he basks in the noises he earns with each one.

“Oh god,” Donna whimpers into Dean’s throat. Her hands skate down his back, landing on his ass and palming his cheeks, holding on while he pounds into her. “Fuck, yes, just like that.”

Dean’s release is sitting heavy in the base of his spine, sparking out jolts of pleasure along every nerve, but he won’t come before she gets off again. He’s a fucking gentleman. He is close though, so he props his weight on one forearm and looks down, deep into Donna’s eyes. 

With his free hand, Dean trails the pads of his fingers questioningly down the line of her throat. Donna shudders, but tilts her head back in silent offering, holding eye contact. Dean closes his hand around her neck, careful to keep most of the pressure in his fingertips. He squeezes and Donna’s eyes roll back.

He’ll have scratches all over his shoulders tomorrow, but it’s well worth it. Donna’s orgasm makes her entire body go tight, thighs locking like a vise around Dean’s ribs as she cries her pleasure into his collarbone. Donna curls into him as her walls ripple around him and Dean follows her over the edge buried to the hilt.

They end up in a sweaty pile of mostly naked flesh, Dean’s cock still inside her while they catch their breath. Donna shoves at his chest, pushing him off so he collapses on his side and she can curl into him. After he rids himself of the condom, he ties it off and drops it into the trash can beside the bed, then Dean returns to Donna and slips his leg between her thighs. He tangles them up, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

After a while, Donna’s breathing has evened out and the slow spiral of her index finger as it traces his anti-possession sigil is starting to make him doze. He snuffles a sigh into her hair and tightens his arm around her, stopping when she squeaks.

“You said you wanted to break the bed, not my ribs.”

Dean grins, eyes closed, and says, “Sorry,” even though he isn’t.

“We can’t sleep like this,” Donna points out. “We’ll freeze to death.”

They’re mostly sideways on the bed, but Dean wants to move exactly as much as he wants to shove hot iron pokers into his eye sockets, so he improvises. Without having to get up, Dean tugs the corners of the comforter away from the edges of the bed and tucks them around he and Donna, essentially turning them into a sex burrito.

“I’m too tired to argue about the legitimacy of sex burrito-ing,” Donna sighs. 

It’s hard not to think she’s the very best of a very, very bad world.


End file.
